Carpe Noctem
by Death'sDarkAngel
Summary: The week before Halloween, a series of murders take place that seem to revolve around London's underground "vampire" cult. While Sherlock finds the case intriguing, he is less than thrilled about the attention John is receiving from a few other tall, dark, and handsome men. As tension and tempers run high, something's got to give…Seize the Night
1. Scary Movie Marathon

**The plot monkeys came up with this brain child after an inspiring episode of Castle, Season 2: Episode 6- which I have shamelessly borrowed from for this fic (with a little twist from Criminal Minds to spice it up).**

**Disclaimer: As usual, I don't own Sherlock or the plot parts and dialogue heavily borrowed from Castle and CM.**

**I hope you enjoy! **

* * *

_In all the darkest pages in the malign supernatural,_

_there is no more terrible tradition than that of a vampire – _

_a pariah even among demons._

~ Montague Summers

* * *

Sherlock barely restrained the huff of annoyance trying to escape his mouth as the people in his flat bantered back and forth over their favorite horror films. He wished they'd just shut up already and get to it so he could at least retreat to the solace of his mind palace in the near dark without being noticed.

Normally he loved the weeks leading up to Halloween—people were always so creative when it came to murders around this time. This year, however, remained uncharacteristically calm and it was driving the consulting detective insane. He was so bored, he was contemplating a Frankenstein-like experiment just for the sake of something to do. Sherlock had only held off because he knew that John would frown upon such things.

And that's how he ended up wedged on the couch between its right arm and his blogger. It was the weekend before the ghostly holiday and the doctor had gotten the brilliant idea that they should invite their friends over for a movie night.

"So what's your favorite scary movie, Sherlock?" Molly asked as she came back into the sitting room with a huge bowl of popcorn. She set it on the coffee table before sitting down in his squishy leather chair.

Mike Dimmock turned a bit to regard the genius with open curiosity from his claimed position in John's wingback chair.

"They're all rather tedious," Sherlock answered, distain thick in his deep baritone. "And most are rather ridiculous. They are so simple! All you have to do—"

"Sherlock," John warned with an evil sideways glance.

"I dunno," Lestrade said, leaning around John to address Sherlock. "I would have thought you would enjoy _something_ in the genre. After all, the horror film industry has so much to offer—there's your classic slasher flicks, then you have the monster movies—zombies included—demon possession and evil spirits, and the who-dunnits."

"Greg, don't you think that slasher films and the who-dunnits are really the same thing?" Dimmock inquired.

"No—he has a point," Molly chimed in. "Take _Halloween_, the quintessential slasher movie. You know the murder is Michael Myers."

"Alright, I see your point—but I was thinking of _Saw_ actually," Michael conceded and took a swig from his beer bottle.

Sherlock snorted at that. "Honestly, Dimmock—I thought you had better taste than that. It was quite obvious who the killer was within the first twenty minutes! Remind me again how you made DI ranking?"

The barbed comment earned him a smack on the leg from his flat mate.

"_Fine_," the genius acquiesced. "If you must know, I rather enjoyed the premise of that movie _The Silence of the Lambs_."

Dimmock rolled his eyes and muttered, "Of course you did."

"I always pictured you as more of a zombie kind of bloke myself…" Greg declared with a shrug.

"Hmm…well, yes—in theory the concept is rather intriguing…" Sherlock admitted.

"I like the classic slashers myself," Michael said.

"Which one?" John asked as he grabbed a handful of popcorn.

"Halloween—what else is there? It's the iconic horror movie!" Dimmock replied.

"Yes!" Molly agreed. "It follows the three basic rules of all horror movies."

Despite his better judgment, Sherlock asked the one question he knew he'd regret, "And what are those?"

Four pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at him.

"You're joking, right? Lestrade begged at the same time John declared, "Everyone knows the rules!"

Sherlock crossed his arms and huffed, "Well, clearly I don't so someone just tell me then!"

"Alright—it's like this," Molly explained. "These are the three basic rules to surviving any horror movie. Number one—only virgins can outsmart the killer. Sex equals death here. Number two—you can't drink or do drugs because it's a sin and basically an extension of number one. And number three—you can never under any circumstances say 'I'll be right back' because you _won't_ be back."

"Well, we're all buggered with number two!" Dimmock laughed and raised his beer. "I think the only one of us that has a fighting chance is Sherlock!"

Greg chuckled and Molly giggled behind her hand and avoided looking at the consulting detective.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

John coughed to cover up the laugh threatening to bubble forth and answered, "Umm, they're implying that you're a virgin."

The pout that the doctor knew so well graced Sherlock's face as he turned his head away from his companions at glare into the dark corner of the sitting room.

"Oh, come now," John said and laid a hand on his flat mate's elbow. "They're just taking the piss—it's alright."

Even in the dim lighting, they could make out the blush creeping along the genius' cheeks.

"I think it's sweet actually," declared Molly.

Dimmock stared at him in disbelief. "I was just joking. Are you seriously still a virgin? At your age? You've got to be kidding me, Sherlock!"

Greg started to laugh even harder. "Well—we _all_ know that John isn't. You're screwed, mate, if you ever end up in a horror movie!" That got everyone in an uproar.

John regarded Sherlock with increased interest for several long seconds. He had always wondered about his best friend's history in that regard—especially after Mycroft's comment from so long ago, but it was something they never discussed. The flushed cheeks told the doctor all he needed to know about that accuracy of Dimmock's assumption.

It was alright, he didn't mind taking the heat for this one since the subject was clearly making Sherlock uncomfortable. John leaned forward and waved his hands to get everyone's attention. "Alright, alright! Let's get to then, shall we? Ladies first—so Molly, what is our first feature this evening?"

She grinned and retrieved a movie from her purse and flounced over to the DVD player. As she stuck in this disc, she informed them, "I thought that a nice, newer cult classic was in order. This is my favorite: _Scream_."

"Lovely!" John applauded her choice for their movie marathon.

While Sherlock started to fast forward through the previews, Michael proposed, "Let's make this a bit more interesting—a game if you will."

"What did you have in mind?" Greg asked, taking the bait.

With an evil grin, Dimmock responded, "So we continue this throughout the whole night: every time someone asks 'Is anyone there?'—you take a drink. Any time someone can't get a phone signal—you drink. Any time someone closes a door to find the killer standing right there—you drink!"

"And anytime someone says 'I'll be right back!'—you drink!" Molly added, excitedly, paying homage to her movie of choice.

"Oh God!" Lestrade groaned. "Are you trying to give us all alcohol poisoning tonight?"

"Shut it, you twat—you can take it!" Michael scoffed.

"We definitely have enough beer to keep us going!" John supplied cheerily

Sherlock sighed and flicked off the end table light next to him as the beginning credits started to flash across the screen. This was going to be a long night…

~0_o~

Several hours later and three movies in, his four companions were all fairly sauced. Sherlock was finding their drunken antics far more interesting than the films themselves. About half way through the second movie, they all started talking to the characters in the movies—warning them to look behind them, shouting to turn on lights in a room, telling the fictional people to run the other way…it was all fairly amusing.

"God—I am so _drunk_ right now!" Dimmock complained as he leaned his head against the backrest of the chair.

"Lightweight," teased John as he stumbled back in from obtaining another round of beers from the kitchen. He passed them out then flopped down into his seat, falling onto Sherlock in the process.

The consulting detective jerked back in surprise as his flat mate invaded his personal space. There wasn't anywhere for him to go. John paused momentarily as his intoxicated brain tried to process the sudden look of panic crossing his partner's face. He rested a warm hand on Sherlock's chest in what was meant to be a calming manner.

"Relax," the doctor stage whispered. "I don't bite…" An indecent grin spread across his face as he added, "…hard…"

The two DIs snickered in response and Molly giggled behind her hand, thinking in her drunkenness that if her mouth was covered, then the genius couldn't hear her.

"John…" Sherlock reprimanded weakly and tried to gently shove his blogger away.

He did not need his flat mate crawling all over him. It was bad enough that the doctor had on several occasions that evening, reached over unconsciously and either grabbed his hand or his thigh during a rather scary or intense scene. In his drunken haze, John had migrated closer and closer to his best friend. It was rather distracting and Sherlock, much to his annoyance, was trying desperately to quell his body's reaction to the close proximity of his blogger.

"Damn—can the two of you wait until we leave before you start shagging?" demanded Greg in feigned exasperation as he heaved himself up from the opposite end of the couch.

Molly and Dimmock both followed the older DI's lead and stumbled towards the door, acting like they were going to sneak out without the flat mates noticing.

"We're not shagging!" John protested loudly. "Though it might do Sherlock some good if he had a nice fuck—you know, loosen you up? A little tension reliever every once and a while…"

"John!" Sherlock rebuked just as loudly as the laughter of their friends floated back up the stairwell to them.

"Enjoy that Johnny Boy!" Dimmock called to him. "_Don't_ tell us about that in the morning!" Then the front door slammed shut and they were left alone with each other.

"Really, John—this is quite uncalled for," the detective warned, trying to hold his blogger at bay.

"Wuzza matter?" the doctor slurred, sliding the hand on his flat mate's chest a little further south. As it came dangerously close to touching his crotch, Sherlock bolted out of his seat.

John frowned in disapproval at their sudden distance. "C'mere. I know you want to…"

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Despite that—as the case may be—you are quite inebriated at the moment, John. And you're not gay—as you've declared countless times before."

The doctor, kneeling on the couch, beckoned him with his left hand. "I make an exception for you."

"No," the genius stated firmly. "I want you to come into my bed of your own volition without being under the influence of a substance that lowers your inhibitions. And I would also prefer you to being using proper grammar as well. Your use of language is severely impaired where you're drunk, John, and it is rather off-putting."

"Well sod off, you tosser!" John exclaimed indignantly as he staggered towards the stairs leading up to his room. "I'll just go have a wank by m'self then!"

Sherlock blushed at the improper images that popped into his mind at that statement. He was nearly on the verge of caving in when he heard John bump into something upstairs and start laughing at his own clumsiness. He sighed again. It was definitely in his best interest to wait until John could say those things to him sober. God only knew how much of this conversation the good doctor was going to remember in the morning.

* * *

John groaned as he gingerly sat down at his seat at the kitchen table. He dropped his head into his hands in an attempt to block out the unusually bright light of the room.

Sherlock just shook his head and placed a cup of tea near his flat mate's elbow, along with two paracetamol tablets and a glass of water.

"Thanks," the doctor mumbled and popped the pills into his mouth.

Sliding into his regular chair across from John, Sherlock regarded his blogger with unveiled amusement.

"How much do you remember from last night?" he inquired with a raised eyebrow.

With another groan, the doctor gave his flat mate a morose look. "You only ever ask that when I've managed to make a complete drunken fool of myself. What did I do this time?"

Smirking, the detective baited him, "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Well, when you say it like that, yeah…"

"Dimmock suggested we were shagging and then you came onto me quite strongly."

"Oh no…please tell me our friends had left!"

"They had."

"What did I say to you? I'm sure I made a right bloody arse of myself, didn't I?"

_Now let's see how he handles this in the harsh light of day_… "You proffered me—after attempting to sit back down, you fell on top of me. When I proceeded to try and distance myself from you, you made that comment that you 'didn't bite hard'. It was then that our 'friends' decided to take their leave. I do believe they were worried that we were going to partake of some sexual act right then and there. Dimmock made his comment as they were on the way down the stairs and you decided to make a bold move and attempted to fondle me—luckily I escaped your grasp before you could cause yourself too much embarrassment. But as I put some distance between us, you said 'you know you want it'. It was then that I reminded you that you are not gay, you told me that you would make an exception for me. I told you no, after which you informed me that you were going to go upstairs and 'have a wank'. It was all quite amusing."

The expression on John's face stated clearly that he was completely mortified by his drunken behavior. "I am so sorry, Sherlock…"

The genius just hummed in response and took a long sip of his tea. And this was precisely why he hadn't taken John up on his offer last night. He could only imagine what the scene would have been like this morning with his blogger waking up with Sherlock in bed with him. No—he was right to stand by his convictions. The doctor would only come to his bed with a clear mind, knowing exactly what the implications of his actions were—not as a drunken mistake. John meant too much to him to have any sexual encounter between them be a mistake. And clearly, any act they would have performed together last night would have been viewed by John as such in the harsh light of the morning.

Though he was still curious… "I wonder, however, how you feel about such activities now in the daylight?"

John stared blankly at him.

Sherlock clarified, "In all the research that I've done over the years on this matter, I have discovered that libations, when consumed in excess, tend to lower one's inhibitions. The subconscious barriers slip and people speak their minds more freely, but whatever they say tends to be something they have thought about before but normally would never give voice to… So I will ask you—since you're now sober, would you still consider taking me to bed?"

A deep blush spread across the doctor's cheeks and he quickly averted his eyes. He stood abruptly and mumbled about needing a shower before making a hasty exit from the kitchen.

The detective smirked into his tea. _Well, that had been _very_ interesting…very interesting indeed…_

* * *

**Okay-so I know that the wonderful festival of Samhain (also known as All Hallows' Eve, also known as Halloween) isn't necessarily celebrated in the UK like it is here in the States-but as this holiday is near and dear to my heart, please just go with me on this one. No Brit-pick hate mail about how you all don't celebrate it...which is interesting considering it's roots are Celtic in nature...anyway!-Just go with the flow people.**

**This is probably going to be a bit darker than some of my other stuff—not as much sweet fluffiness-so you're in for some rougher, ah, scenes than I've written thus far. After writing _After Effects_, I had to work on something that wasn't going to send me into diabetic shock...**

*****ALSO, and probably more importantly: I got the blue screen of death on my poor laptop recently (if you know what I'm taking about-you understand). As a result, I lost several files that I was in the process of working on-the rest of this story included. I have a tech-savvy friend attempting to recover the lost data. In the meantime, I'm going to try and rewrite what I lost and pray that he can get it back. Either way you will have a story! I just wanted to get this first section up since you know-starting a story that takes place at Halloween and posting the first bit weeks later is just weird to me, so here you are and I'll be back! I promise :) And lots of virtual candy corn to anyone who recognizes the movie reference earlier in the notes...**


	2. The Heroic Villain

**In honor of Samhain, I give you a human sacrifice!-er...murder! A murder! That's what I meant... Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain!**

**"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes..." ~Shakespeare **

* * *

Another day passed and there were still no crimes or cases to be solved. Life on Baker Street was less than pleasant at the moment. The only cases that had come across their paths were ones that the genius thought were beneath him and unworthy of his time and talents.

It was in the middle of what was turning out to be a strop of epic proportions that the call they were both waiting for finally came. Though instead of answering it, the consulting detective just let it ring.

"Sherlock, come on. Don't you want to get your phone?" John coaxed, a hint of desperation leaking into his voice despite his best effort.

"No," he said sullenly and turned over to burrow further into the couch.

With a sigh, the doctor heaved himself up out of his chair and crossed over the mantel to retrieve his flat mate's mobile. "It's Lestrade—maybe it's a nice murder to brighten your day…" he cajoled and held out the device. That was all it took.

"Sherlock Holmes…"

Half an hour later, they were standing at the entrance to Highgate Cemetery West. John looked questioningly at Sherlock but blindly followed him nevertheless. Cemeteries weren't on his list of places to visit, no matter how hauntingly beautiful they might be—and this burial ground was no exception. To put it in the shortest terms, they creeped him out. As a child, he and Harry along with a few friends of theirs had played hide-and-seek in the local cemetery just on the outskirt of their town. In his haste to discover his companions' hiding places, he had tripped and fallen into a freshly dug grave. It had been several hours before he was found and pulled out. The doctor had been so terrified that his parents failed to discipline him for being where he shouldn't have been in the first place. But, even years later, that unfortunate event had colored his view on burial grounds. So needless to say he was significantly uncomfortable as he trailed after his best friend.

Lestrade met them at the gateway to the Egyptian Avenue. He just shook his head at the pair and motioned for them to follow him down the tomb lined walkway.

"I think you'll like this one, Sherlock," the DI stated over his shoulder. "Definitely a weird one. And they've saved us the trouble—leaving the body in the cemetery for us and all."

"So where are we?" Sherlock asked as he tugged at his gloves and sniffed in indifference.

"It's further back this way, near the Circle of Lebanon. Body was left just under the cedar tree," Greg advised.

John glanced around on either side as they made their way through the tunnel-like hall. He tried to catch a glimpse of the engravings on the tomb walls as they passed but he couldn't do that and keep pace with the other two.

"Come along, John," Sherlock demanded without slowing his stride, seemingly completely uninterested in his surroundings.

He quickened his pace to a jog and declared, "Well, isn't this massively creepy."

Lestrade gave him a sidelong glance he knew didn't bode well before replying, "Wait 'til you see the body…"

"And who found the victim?" questioned Sherlock as he looked down at the ground, trying to discern if there was anything worth his attention—a clue that the police would have been blinded to.

"It was one of their tour guides," the DI answered and waved off to the person in question when they finally came within sight of the base of the giant cedar. There was a young man standing a good few meters away looking visibly shaken. "Said he was 'checking the path before he began the first tour'. Dunno if that's true but—"

"Most likely not, considering he was probably meeting his young female coworker for a quick lovers' tryst," the genius said in huff as he disengaged from his companions and strode with purpose towards the body.

Greg and John shared a silent look before they followed. Once the doctor rejoined his partner, he knelt down next to the corpse and studied it with unveiled curiosity.

"A stake through the heart—really? Well, at least this will be an interesting one, Sherlock…" he said as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and prodded gently at the piece of wood sticking out of the body. "What was he going to a fancy dress party or something? What is that? Like I don't know—Victorian gothic?"

"I'd say it's more than just that," Sherlock replied as he took a nearby stick and carefully lifted the victim's upper lip away from his teeth, revealing a set of high end veneer vampire fangs.

"So and stake through the heart and fangs? Who would do something like this?" Greg wondered aloud.

Without missing a beat, John said with all seriousness, "The Lycans; they've been at war with the vampires for centuries."

Both his flat mate and the DI turned to look at him with two very different expressions. Lestrade grinned at the _Underworld_ reference while Sherlock scowled at his attempt at humor.

"Can we please focus on the _actual_ crime here? Thank you!" the consulting detective exclaimed in an agitated voice.

With a chagrined expression, his blogger cleared his throat, answering, "Right, right. Sorry. Umm… looks like the stake was driven in post-mortem. No ligature marks around the neck… and… no signs of asphyxiation…"

"No," Sherlock agreed as he leaned closer to examine the chest wound with his magnify glass. "Look here, John—looks like he was shot first—there appears to be gunpowder residue on his shirt…"

The doctor leaned closer and to get a better look. "You're right! Small caliber, I'd say, going on the fact that there's not too much damage."

"If he was shot, then why go through the trouble of staking him if he was already dead?" Greg demanded.

John and the consulting detective looked up at each other at the same time. It was then that the doctor realized that their faces were only inches apart. His mouth went dry instantly and he nervously licked his lips as the most interesting shade of pink crept along his cheeks. Sherlock smirked knowingly and rocked back on his heels as he turned his attention to the DI.

"It's a message, I believe," the genius answered as John tried valiantly to regain control of himself and reexamined the body.

"Well…if it was a small caliber handgun—say from a .22—then our victim was shot at pointblank range in order to have left this particular soot and burn pattern on his clothes. And with the location of the wound, there is no way the killer would have missed either his heart or his one lung… if he managed to somehow survive the bullet, the stake surely finished him," the doctor added. "But it seems a bit overkill—no pun intended—just for a simple fancy dress party."

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth, taking in all the evidence, his massive brain calculating. He stood swiftly and shook his head. "No. This was not merely for some party—this is more of a lifestyle choice. The veneers are too high end to be from just any costume shop. They also are the exact shade of enamel as the rest of his teeth—that says even more. The fact that a wooden stake was used is evidence enough."

"Well, I'll request Molly to perform the autopsy since you're working the case," Greg told them. "Right now we have him tagged as a John Doe—he wasn't found with any form of identification on him."

"If he had the veneers done in London, I know the most likely place he would have gone to," John volunteered. He had an eerie sense of déjà vu when Lestrade and Sherlock both turned to regard him matching odd expressions. "What?" he demanded, felling a little self-conscious.

Finally, his flat mate raised an eyebrow and asked, "Sounds like you have partaken of this particular fetish before, John."

With a shrug, he answered, "I dated a girl once who was into the lifestyle. I was curious so I tried it…"

Greg couldn't help the snicker that emerged from his mouth. "So… what? You're obviously not still into it. Did the relationship suck?" He laughed at his own joke.

The flat mates rolled their eyes in unison before John informed them, "It was like a weird social club—you like to play golf, I like to play golf. You like to drink blood, I like to drink blood. Deal breaker was that she wanted to have sex in a coffin—I'm open-minded, but not _that_ open-minded."

The DI found this hilarious and cackled so loudly that the other Yarders working the scene stopped what they were doing to turn and stare. John blushed furiously again at being the center of attention once more.

When he had finally calmed down enough, Lestrade said, "Right… so, I'll leave you two to question the fang masters of London since this is something you know a little about."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock agreed pleasantly then stalked off to interrogate the tour guide who had found the body.

The doctor and Greg stepped back to allow the forensics team to take care of the body. The stood by watching the happenings for several moments before the DI spoke.

"So…how did the other night go after we left?"

With a groan, John hid his face behind his hands and answered, "Oh God! I made a right bloody fool of myself! I was so drunk, I don't remember it, but Sherlock says I came on to him quite strongly. He told me this over our morning cuppa and then after going on about how alcohol just lowers your inhibitions to free your subconscious mind, he asked that since I was now sober if I still wanted to take him to bed."

Lestrade openly gaped at his friend before collecting himself enough to respond, "To which you said 'Why yes, Sherlock! I'd love to shag you senseless against the sitting room wall right now!' Right?"

"We were in the kitchen—and no I didn't," the doctor confessed. "I made up some excuse about showering and hightailed it out of there. I was probably beet red too."

"Ooh! The kitchen counter—even better!" declared the DI, earning him a punch on the arm from the short ex-army doctor. He took it good-naturedly and started laughing, which caused John to giggle as well.

Sherlock had approached just in time to overhear Greg's last statement and eyed the two older men suspiciously. Their merriment died down rather abruptly as they noticed his presence. He knew they were talking about him in some capacity but he failed to see what the worktop in the kitchen had to do with anything.

Instead of addressing whatever nonsense his two companions were up to, he just raised his eyebrows and queried, "Shall we then?"

Lestrade nodded and that was all the incentive John needed to go dashing off with this mad best friend. They made their way back out of the cemetery through the tomb lined alley once more, this time at a more leisurely pace than before. The doctor recognized the fact that Sherlock was giving him time to sate his curiosity with the grave markers.

"You know," the genius began conversationally, strolling along side his blogger with his hands clasped behind his back, "that legend has it that this cemetery was part of the inspiration for Bram Stoker's _Dracula_. Specifically Highgate is thought to be where Stoker has the unfortunate Lucy buried in her family's crypt."

John stopped in the middle of the pathway and stared at his partner in surprise. "How is it that you know _Dracula_ trivia yet nothing about the solar system?" Much to his surprise, the detective smiled.

"Information on the solar system is useless, John," Sherlock said to him. "But in my sixth form I was rather taken with the novel. I found it poetic."

"Somehow I'm not surprised that you like a tale on vampires," his blogger replied. "But you…I don't know…you have never struck me as the type to enjoy classical literature."

Baffled by his flat mate's statement, Sherlock asked, "Have you not seen my personal library?"

"No, I never go in your room."

"Well, John, if you did you would find that Stoker is among well respected company. He shares a shelf with Dickens, Keats, Byron, Kipling, Marlowe and Shakespeare, Milton, Blake—shall I continue?"

"I think that officially covers the entire history of British literature right there—save for Chaucer, Bronte, Austen, Eliot..."

Giving his companion a smirk, the detective stated, "Oh they're there as well. What? Why are you giving me that look?"

John just shook his head, a perplexed expression gracing his face. "Nothing—you just…I never thought you would be interested in any of that, is all. Especially a fanciful tale about vampires."

Sherlock cast a look at him that the doctor couldn't even being to decipher before he turned his back to John and started to examine an inscription on one of the tombs. "It's the wolf in sheep's clothing scenario, I suppose. The struggle between the monster and humanity all in one character, something which developed over time into a sort of heroic villain. A character who eternally struggles to come to terms with what and who he is…"

The doctor was drawn closer to his best friend. He couldn't help but think that the genius was no longer talking about a fictional person and more a self-reflection. John's chest tightened painfully and he felt himself slip a little further down the rabbit hole. He lived for moments like these, when Sherlock opened up and let him in just a little.

The consulting detective reached up and ran his gloved fingers over the engraving on the wall of the sepulcher. John leaned over his shoulder to read the inscription, which was a moving eulogy to a man's beloved wife.

They stood there for a moment staring at the engraving, with Sherlock relishing in the warmth and closeness of his blogger. But now was not the time. There was work to be done and apparently John was not ready to admit that he had feelings for him yet.

He took a step back and was the picture perfect epitome of calm and collected as he continued his leisurely pace down the pathway towards the exit. As ever, John followed him wordlessly. Sherlock glanced around once more. "Despite the morbidity of all this," he waved his hand around as a means to encompass their surroundings, "I find it all quite beautiful."

As they finally exited the cemetery, the doctor took one final glance back and said, "And so it is."

Sherlock smiled and held open the cab door for his blogger.

* * *

**Oh John-I sympathize on your fear of cemeteries. I have an irrational fear of zombies. And yes-I'm fully aware it's irrational. On another note-Sherlock has excellent taste in literature! Fun side note-one of my best buds works for a division of Barnes & Noble: when we all go shopping, the rest of the peanut gallery buys smut. And what do I have? Literature. Captain Evil commented that at least one of us has to be a responsible, mature adult...so NOT me, but okay!**


	3. Dental Records

**I hope all you sexy Brits out there enjoyed your November the 5th.**

**My heartfelt thanks goes out yet again to Captain Evil for proofing for me yet again. Any mistakes left are mine and not hers and the flying plot monkey's.**

* * *

"Where to?" the cabbie asked over the top of the divider.

Sherlock looked expectantly at John since he was the one who knew about the supposed "fang master" of London. John gave the address and they spent the majority of the journey in a comfortable silence lost in their own thoughts.

When they reached their destination, the consulting detective's phone pinged signaling an incoming text. Sherlock opened the message and looked quite pleased as he read it over before slipping the mobile back into his coat pocket.

"What was it then?" John asked as he held open the door to the dentist's office for his partner.

The genius strode past him with a nod and answered, "It was Lestrade. Crime scene photos." He didn't offer any more information as they approached the reception desk.

A kind elderly woman looked up at them as they stopped in front of her and welcomed them.

"We're here to see Dr. Jefferies, please. Tell him Dr. Watson would just like a moment of his time if he can spare it," John replied before Sherlock could open his mouth. The woman nodded and quickly went to find the oral surgeon in question.

While they waited, Sherlock took in the reception room, no doubt deducing everything he could about their surroundings. "Well, this certainly doesn't appear to be the working environment of a man known as 'the fang master'," he surmised.

His blogger just shook his head as someone behind them called out, "John Watson! What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Donald! How are you?" the doctor greeted with a grin and shook hands with the other medical man. "Looks like business is doing well, yeah?"

The dentist shrugged in a self-depreciating manner and responded, "I can't complain. What brings you here, mate?"

John spared a quick glance at Sherlock before saying, "Umm, we're actually here on official police business, Don. Do you mind if we talk in your office?"

"Of course! Yes," Dr. Jefferies agreed and ushered them down a short, sterile hallway and into a much warmer space filled with books, photographs, and a large mahogany desk. The dentist took his seat behind the desk and motioned for John and Sherlock to take the chairs across from him.

Once they were all comfortable, John gave his fellow doctor a brief description of the murder they had been called to that morning and it was then that Sherlock pulled out his phone and handed it over to the oral surgeon.

"We were wondering if you could take a look at the pictures of the victim and either help us identify him or point us in the direction of another dentist who might do similar work," John finished.

Dr. Jefferies flipped though the photos and pulled a face. "He was one of mine. The name he went by was Dimitri."

"I'm assuming that was chosen and not his given name?" Sherlock pressed, leaning forward eagerly. There was nothing he loved more than getting that next clue.

"You're correct—not his given name," the dentist concurred as he handed the genius back his mobile. "If you give me a moment, I can get you his full name and address... It's a shame, he was a good kid. Only did his work about two months ago." He turned to his computer and started tapping away on the keyboard. Without looking, he reached for a sticky note and a pen and began scribbling down the requested information in a patent doctor's scrawl. "His proper name is Chuck Werthnor and here is his address."

"Thanks, Don—can't tell you how much this helps," John said as he stood up to shake his colleague's hand. Sherlock followed suite and even offered a smile.

"Anything I can do to help," Dr. Jefferies stated and showed his guests out. "Please let me know if there is anything else I can do for you."

John agreed and they were back out on the street in no time.

"Well, at least that was productive," the older man declared as he attempted to flag down a cab.

Sherlock had once again pulled out his mobile and answered, "Indeed," before holding the device up to his ear. "Lestrade—we have a name and an address for you. Have your least irritating officer meet us there."

* * *

So once again they found themselves in the back of a taxi, this time headed toward the East End and the flat of their staked vampire. The entire ride over, John contemplated the astronomical amount of money they had just spent in cab fare that morning alone—and it wasn't even noon yet. He sighed internally and sat back against the seat to stare out the window. At least the consulting business was going well and they had more than enough money in their joint account. He also remembered Sherlock saying something about a sizable Holmes trust fund—which was good considering John was no longer practicing medicine in the traditional sense.

Not that John really minded at all—running around London with his mad best friend was much more entertaining than the work he was doing at the surgery when he had left. There were only so many colds and flu jabs he could take before wanting to pull out his hair. There was a reason he had gone into the army after all. He had recently been offered a position at one of the local A&Es, but had yet to give them an answer. While it would afford him the rush and unpredictability of the battlefield, he would be putting in long hours and would have significantly less time to devote to Sherlock and their cases. _Wait—did I just say 'less time to devote to Sherlock'?!_ he thought and then realized that was precisely the phrasing his mind had supplied. _God, I'm so far gone! I'm pathetic._

"If you're thinking about the money situation again, I hope you're aware that there is no need to worry. Business is going well and I have more than enough in my inheritance to sustain us for quite some time," Sherlock reminded him, reading his thoughts.

The doctor sighed and continued to stare blankly out the window. "It's not just about the money."

"What then? Was it the cemetery? I know how you feel about them, but you didn't seem that bothered by it this morning," the genius concluded.

"No, not that. It's just—you know what, never mind."

Sherlock observed his companion with a keen eye and it dawned on him. "This has to do with the other night, doesn't it? Your drunken confession as it were."

The detective watched his blogger's jaw tighten in his reflection in the glass. "I was merely drunk. I have no idea what I said and you can't hold that over my head, so can you please just drop it? It's really of no concern one way or another."

"You've never been one to run from things and I refuse to let this be the one time that you do," the younger man snarled dangerously, catching John off guard by the ferocity in his voice. "Clearly something is bothering you, and whatever it is will surely start to effect your work—therefore it is very much _my_ concern. So do not think for a second, John, that this discussion is over."

The older man snapped his head around to look at his best friend, but Sherlock was clearly done with the conversation at the moment since they had just arrived at Chuck Werthnor's flat. The consulting detective threw a wad of bills at the driver before sliding out with all the lithe grace of a jungle cat.

Dimmock was waiting for them at the door to the building, standing about with a bored posture. He gave John a half-hearted salute as they approached and pulled out a set of keys from his pocket.

"Mike! What do we owe the pleasure?" the doctor asked. "How were you lucky enough to draw this task?"

"It seems everyone else was busy so I got the job, not that I wasn't busy with my own stuff," the DI answered with no small hint acid behind his words.

Sherlock, as usual, was oblivious to it and as soon as the door was unlocked, he waltzed in without a word to his companions. He started flitting about the small flat as soon as he was inside, taking in everything there was about the victim's life. Dimmock and John followed behind at a much slower pace.

"Well, seems like he was a bit of a dark soul," Michael stated as he looked around the sitting room, which was painted black. There were cheap brass candelabras set around the room with candlesticks that melted down, and were in various stages of use. All the furniture was upholstered in a deep burgundy velvet that definitely had seen better days—probably well over a decade ago. When they glanced in the closet, they found it filled with very little regular clothing and many more outfits like the one they had found on the body. The rest was nothing but black jeans and shirts.

"This is taking the vampire thing a bit far, don't you think?" John wondered aloud as he rifled through the papers on the small desk in the corner. The only answer he received was Sherlock's hum of ascension.

He was about to give up on searching through the disorganized files when he unearthed a bright orange flyer beneath all the mess. "Hey—look at this!" the doctor called out to his partner. "I think this might have been where our victim had been going last night…"

Sherlock stepped up behind him to read over his shoulder.

_Haunted Hotel Halloween Party_

_Come as your Alter Ego_

_The festivities begin at 8pm._

_It will be a night to DIE for…_

"I'm guessing that this is where Dimitri—or rather, Chuck—was going last night," John declared, turning his head slightly to look at his flat mate.

Still regarding the flyer, Sherlock replied, "I think you're right…at what would you say was the time of death?"

"I'd say…around two this morning," his blogger supplied. "So it's highly likely that he made it to the party. Perhaps the killer met him there?"

"Highly possible, yes," the genius agreed.

"Do you think we should take a trip out to this place?" John asked as he pointed to the address on the bottom of the flyer.

"No—I don't think that's necessary. Besides, I've been out to this mansion before. It's actually condemned. I'm honestly surprised it's still standing," Sherlock answered.

"So this just tells us where's he's been but nothing really of use."

"Essentially, yes."

"Maybe if we found who else was at the party that could help narrow it down— maybe someone saw him leave with someone?" the doctor suggested.

With a shake of his head, the detective responded, "I doubt anyone is still there at the moment and we really have no way to find the other people who partake of this fetish."

"Well, maybe this is something," Dimmock, who had been silent up until this point, spoke up. He was sitting at the small kitchen table with the victim's laptop open in front of him. "Seems to be the last thing in his browser history—it's a link to a vampire coven…guess that's what they call themselves…there's a meeting tonight supposedly but there's no address given. Seems you need to know someone to get in."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John and asked, "Still know that girlfriend?"

"Ha! No—haven't talked to her in years. That was before I was deployed," John told him.

"Well, either way I've sent the link to Greg—maybe he can figure something out," Dimmock said.

"We might as well leave—there's nothing more to be gained here," the genius told them.

The DI bagged the computer as evidence as well as the party flyer before they all exited the flat together about ten minutes later. John squinted against the brightness of the daylight as they stepped back out onto the street. It seemed like an entirely different world compared to the darkness of the flat.

Only seconds later, Sherlock's mobile rang. "Ah, Lestrade! Already been over the information Dimmock sent you?"

"Hey, Sherlock. Yeah, I have. And I'd like you to come down to the Yard. There's someone I know who can help us out with getting into this cult," Greg advised. "I've just phoned him and he should be here shortly."

"Excellent! John and I will head there in a moment." And with that, he hung up.

At the doctor's inquisitive expression, Sherlock explained, "Lestrade's found someone who can help. He needs us to come in."

"I can give you a ride to the station," Michael offered. "I just need to stop off somewhere first to follow up on a lead to another case."

The genius was about to decline, seeing how he absolutely hated riding in the back of a panda car—it brought back too many memories of a time when he was ruled by the drugs he had fallen slave to. But the expression on John's face said enough to convince him that he needed to put his discomfort aside and take the proffered ride. He knew that his blogger was concerned about their money situation—which was completely unnecessary—but Sherlock didn't wish to get into another domestic about their finances. So instead of spending the extra cash to be comfortable, this one time he sucked up his pride and took the offered ride.

* * *

**Good news! The next chapter is done! I just have to reread it to make sure its fit for public consumption. You will have it shortly, I promise :)**


	4. The Green-Eyed Monster

******I feel like I have to say this before we get any further into the story-j**ust so you all have some idea at what goes on in my head sometimes because there seems to be A LOT of gayness in my stories, there is a reason behind it. **I have a seriously warped sense of reality: I assume everyone is gay until they're proven straight-which is by no means a bad thing, obviously. This happens in real life and in the fictional world as well. SO that said-all of you are gay because I have no proof otherwise. Except for Captain Evil-she's undecided. :P And I have no problem telling you all that I identify...so there you have it.**

* * *

It was early afternoon by the time they made it back to the Yard. Sherlock had even solved Dimmock's case for him. The genius was in rather high spirits when he strode up to Lestrade's office with John at his side.

He knocked twice before flinging the door open and found Greg seated behind his desk with the chair directly in front of him occupied.

"Ah! Sherlock!" Lestrade grinned and motioned for them to come in. "I'd like you to meet a personal friend of mine."

The man in question stood and turned to face them. John found himself swallowing back a wave so sudden lust. The stranger was a couple of inches taller than himself, but had raven dark fringe that was swept off to the side and stunning ice blue eyes that glittered wickedly when paired with a devil-may-care crooked smile. And that coupled with a tight pair of black jeans and well-fitted tee-shirt topped with a leather motorcycle jacket, he looked positively _sinful_.

"Sherlock Holmes, John Watson—this is Damon Salvatore," Greg introduced everyone.

The man called Damon extended his hand and shook both the detective's as well as the doctor's. "Nice to meet you."

"Oh—you're American," John declared, startled.

"Yeah. Try not to hold that against me-it's not a problem, is it?" Damon asked with a raised eyebrow and a cheeky grin.

"No—not at all," the doctor reassured him. "I was just surprised is all."

The cheekiness dissolved into a charming lopsided smile as the stranger gazed back at John. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he examined the other man, not trusting him for a second. That only increased as the American's scrutiny of his partner intensified.

Damon crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side as he continued to regard John. "I'm sorry—but I feel like I've met you somewhere before…"

"I haven't been to American in about a decade so I'm not sure—"

"No, not Stateside…somewhere else…" The young man thought furiously. A dawning light shone in his disturbingly ice blue eyes. "Oh my God! You're the Captain! _Captain_ Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers! That's where I know you from—I thought you looked familiar!"

John just stared back at the young man, still not being able to place him despite the additional knowledge.

"You worked a joint mission with the American Army—the Forty-fourth Virginian Infantry in the southern province of Kandahhar in Afghanistan," Damon declared.

Blinking in disbelief, John exclaimed, "Yes, yes we did! Was some nasty business, that."

"It totally was," agreed Salvatore. The genius barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"I don't imagine you'd remember since there were a significant amount of injuries over the time our units worked together, but after the worst of the enemy fire on the tenth day you patched me up. I had some shrapnel lodged in my shoulder from a bomb blast," Damon explained.

"Yes!" John exclaimed, remembering. He had no idea how he could ever have forgotten eyes like the American's. "We had run out of anesthesia expect for the most critical surgeries. You didn't flinch when I removed the shrapnel."

"Only because you have such soft hands," was the response, which accompanied by a flirtatious air and grin. The good doctor gave a self-depreciating shrug and blushed lightly at the comment.

That was _it_. Sherlock ground his teeth together in anger. Weeks of trying to get John to fess up to his attraction and some other bloke thinks he's just going to waltz in and try to flirt his way into _his_ blogger's pants?! Oh no…

"So what precisely is an American soldier doing in London, then?" the consulting detective wondered with just a hint of malice in his voice. Lestrade hid his face behind his coffee mug so that the genius wouldn't see his smirk. He wasn't above applying a few dirty tricks to kick the dynamic duo into admitting their mutual attraction to one another…

Damon shrugged and answered, "Family business. I drew the short stick, my brother got to stay in our headquarters in Mystic Falls, Virginia and because I was the naughty son my dad sent me here. I think it was payback for me being rebellious and joining the army."

"What a shame," John said sympathetically with a frown.

"Eh. Whatever. I think I made out better in the end than Stephen anyway," Damon told them. "My father thinks this is a punishment—little does he know!"

With a grin, the doctor asked, "Oh-so I take it that you're enjoying our great city?"

_What was John doing?!_ Sherlock silently fumed. _He isn't supposed to be flirting back!_

"More than you know…" Damon responded with a wink.

"We are in the middle of a murder investigation!" Sherlock barked in agitation as he slammed his hands down on the desk in front of Greg. "Now does _any_ of this have _any_ relevance to our case?! If not, I suggest you get to the point, Lestrade, because you're wasting my time here!"

The DI chuckled at his friend's obvious discomfort before he explained the real reason he had called them all here. "Relax, Sherlock! There is a purpose to this little meeting. Damon actually is a well-known member of the city's underground vampire society. If you want in, he's your ticket into the cult."

A look of dawning horror flitted across the genius' face before he schooled his expression into a mask of indifference. "You can't be serious!"

"As the plague," Damon replied, smirking. "I can get you in, but first we need to do something about your overly-posh get-up there, my friend."

His blue-green eyes flashed dangerously, Sherlock whirled around and stalked up to the American. "First of all, I am not your _friend_. Secondly, I am only agreeing to this because it appears to be absolutely necessary to further my investigation. Thirdly—if you get in my way, I promise that I will make your life a living hell. You are only as useful as the information you can potential supply. And fourthly: I assure you that I know how to dress in order to blend in—I don't need _your_ help."

John glared at his partner. What was with all this alpha male posturing lately? He held his tongue though, knowing that if he dared admonition Sherlock now that _his_ life would become rather miserable.

Damon just shrugged as if it didn't matter any to him. It probably didn't. "Whatever. As long as you're appropriately dressed, I can get you in."

"So where is this club? Not sure it's the same one I've been to before," John asked before Sherlock could exacerbate the situation further.

The American dropped back down into the chair he had previously been occupying. "It's in Hackney, on the Murder Mile."

"Great!" John declared and threw up his arms. "Why can't we ever go to the nicer places of town? Why does our research always take us to the dodgy parts? Can I just say how ironically fitting that we're going to go investigate a murder on Murder Mile?!"

Lestrade smirked, finding the humor in the situation where the doctor didn't. He was used to being dragged into London's dark underbelly because of his job as a policeman.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and ignored his blogger's outburst. "Alright—the name?"

"Place called The Admiral's Arms. I'll have to meet up with you beforehand because you'll never find it unless you know where it is," the American said.

"Yes, yes! Fine! When and where?" the genius demanded with a flip of his hand, wanting to get this little meeting over as quickly as possible.

"Nine o'clock. Greg—are you going to come with?" Damon asked, turning his attention to the DI.

With a nod, Lestrade answered, "I'm going to go with you on this one. How about we all meet here at half eight?"

"Fine," Sherlock declared before turning heel and with a great flare of his coat, stalked out of the DI's office.

"Umm—okay, see you later!" John said before he ran out after his flat mate. He caught up to the genius just before he made it to the bank of lifts on the far side of the floor.

"What was that about back there?!" the doctor hissed. "There was absolutely no need to be so incredibly rude to that man."

"Oh please, John!" Sherlock retorted, punching the button to the lift with a little more force than was strictly necessary. "That man is nothing more than an egotistical, self-indulgent pillock who wants nothing more than to get into your knickers!"

John gaped openly at his partner. "Are you listening to yourself right now?"

As the lift doors squeaked open, they stepped inside. Sherlock frowned and waited for the doors to close before questioning, "And what is that supposed to mean?"

That earned him a disbelieving look and a shake of the head. The doctor didn't even bother to reply. It was very clear that the genius saw nothing wrong with his statement on the other man—and he failed to realize that it was also an accurate self-assessment. Well, almost. All except the last bit about getting into his knickers. God how he wished that were true!

"You're angry with me," the detective stated once they were released from the lift carriage.

"No," John denied as he strode purposefully towards the exit. He was at the curb before his partner and tried desperately to flag down at cab before the other caught up to him. He snarled when his attempts failed. His anger spiked once again when Sherlock stepped up beside him and was able to summon a car with his first effort.

The doctor pointedly stared out the window and ignored his companion once he was seated on the far side of the cab. He didn't pay attention as Sherlock gave some random address to cabbie. It was several long minutes before the consulting detective spoke up.

"Tell me what it was that I said which has offended you," he beseeched.

John clenched his jaw tight and glanced up to see Sherlock's reflection looking back at him. They locked eyes in the window glass. The younger man had such an open, confused expression on his face that John felt most of the fight drain out of him.

After sighing heavily the doctor just shook his head and asked, "You really don't have any idea what you did wrong, do you?" John shifted in his seat to face his partner at last. "Sometimes you just…You can't alienate people like you do. Damon gave you no cause to treat him as terribly as you did back there. Whether you like it or not, we need his help and he's less likely to give it if you go burning bridges at every chance you get!"

His mercurial eyes stared back into John's indigo ones for what seemed like an endless amount of time. Sherlock's mind raced to explain what it was exactly that had caused his behavior back in Lestrade's office. He knew precisely why he behaved the way he did. _Jealously_, his inner voice whispered. There was no way he could articulate that to John.

Instead he replied, "You know that I'm not good in social situations—"

"Don't—just, don't go there," John cut him off. "That may be but when it counts, you are Mr. Socialite. What you did back there was something else entirely. And you have no idea how bloody embarrassing it is for me to constantly keep apologizing for you."

Sherlock silently pleaded with John to just drop it. But of course, he didn't because if one thing was for certain John was nothing if not tenacious. In that regard, he was not un-similar to the disposition of a bulldog.

"There was just something about him I didn't like," the genius said instead, hoping that his blogger would accept the weak excuse without pressing the matter further.

John gave him a deep, searching look and opened his mouth to respond when the cab rolled to a stop and their driver announced they had arrived at the destination Sherlock had provided. Knowing he was already on thin ice with the doctor, the detective reached into his wallet and took out enough money to cover their fare.

As they stepped out onto the pavement, the older man gave him another look that very clearly said the conversation was not over. But at least he was spared from having to continue the discussion as they entered the shop. John was so caught up in being angry with Sherlock that he failed to register the store they headed into until the unique scent of its merchandise hit him.

He dutifully trailed behind the genius as he went straight to one particular rack to pick something up from it. When Sherlock handed it to him, John took it with an incredulous expression. "What's this?" he asked.

"Well, hopefully your size," the detective stated as if it should have been obvious.

John looked down at the thing in his hand then back at his partner. "I'm not wearing these," he declared emphatically.

* * *

**Wait-Damon Salvatore?! Where did he come from?! Haha-sorry, I had to. He's just so adorable that I just had to do it. He's such a badass and I could see him give Sherlock some major attitude if needed since he gives as good as he gets. ;D That and he's a sexy mo-fo. And a note on Damon's company-according to the Vampire Diaries canon, the Forty-fourth Virginian Infantry was his unit during the Civil War, if any of you were wondering. I felt no need to change that :P**

**I do love a jealous Sherlock! And those "this isn't over" conversations just seem to be piling up for our boys...I'm starting to feel uncomfortable with all this tension! And you know what the best cure for that is? Hot, angry sex. Try it some time. Wow-I'm in a mood! I'm done now, I promise...**


	5. Transference

**As an apology for the delay in publishing this next chapter, I give you more jealous Sherlock, a dressing down from Lestrade, and John in black leather trousers! I hope you will accept this token of my regret.**

* * *

Several house later, they had found their way to The Admiral's Arms at last. Damon had made good on his word and got them into the club as promised and made a few cursory introductions. Sherlock and Lestrade had gone off some time ago to question several promising people in depth about their victim.

John had been left with Damon—not that he minded in the least. The American was a pretty interesting fellow and a great conversationalist. What he _did_ mind, however, were the damn leather trousers he had been forced to wear that evening. Why people subjected themselves to such torture was beyond him.

His inseam was chafing something fierce and his bollocks were being squeezed to death as he sat there at the little bar table with Damon. John was contemplating various ways he could possibly alleviate the pressure yet remain fully clothed. It was a shame really—those trousers did fantastic things to his form. They hugged him in all the right places. Unfortunately they were also by nature, extremely tight in certain areas. He shifted uncomfortably once again as his companion started to speak again.

"So what's up with your friend?" Damon asked before he took a casual sip of his bourbon. He scanned the crowd once before his eyes rested back on John's.

"What do you mean?" the doctor wondered innocently.

"I don't know," the American said. "He just seems like a dick—no offence. I'm just trying to figure out how a guy like you ended up with a guy like him."

John shrugged and replied, "He's actually a great guy once you get to know him. A bit difficult at first, I imagine, but…there's no one like him."

"Bet he's great in bed, especially with all that pent up frustration and anger," Damon declared with a wolfish smile.

John could feel the hot blush creeping over his cheeks as he averted his gaze into his pint. "I wouldn't know," he answered honestly.

"You mean to tell me that the two of you have never had sex?!"

"Umm…yeah. Pretty sure that's what I meant."

"Wow. Well I guess that explains a lot," Damon exclaimed good-naturedly.

With a frown, John asked, "How do you figure?"

"All his hostility. At first I thought you two were an item, but you're not—kind of explains why he reacted so negatively to me being friendly towards you," was the answer.

With a laugh, the doctor shook his head and responded, "He just doesn't like people getting in his way is all."

"Oh no—that's not it, maybe part of it but not all."

"What then?"

"Competition."

John had just taken a sip of his drink and coughed it back up. "I'm sorry?" he sputtered.

Damon rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly. "Come on, John—you've had to have noticed! I mean I've only been in his presence for a grand total of an hour and I can tell that he's into you."

The flush found its way back onto his face as John once again denied the words he was hearing. "Sherlock's not like that. He doesn't 'do' relationships."

"Hmm. Well, despite that he clearly sees you as being his. Or he'd wants you to be," Damon informed him. "Explains all the male posturing at the Yard earlier. Can't say I really blame him though—you are a good-looking and intriguing individual."

"Ah…thanks," John said, slightly uncomfortable with the compliment. He wasn't sure if it was because for some reason (as Sherlock managed to point out earlier) the American reminded him of his flat mate or if he was mutually attracted to Damon for Damon. _Probably both_, he concluded. _What was with that?_ He had never been attracted to other men before. John long ago acknowledged and accepted that Sherlock would always be an exception to every rule…_Transference maybe?_ He saw the genius as untouchable and here was another tall, dark and handsome man who clearly was interested in him. Could he do it? Could he give in and take pleasure from this man if offered?

He looked back up and his gaze met the American's. Damon offered him what he was quickly learning was his patent crooked smile. _Oh yeah, I could go there_, John thought. Aloud, he replied, "As are you—an interesting bloke, I mean."

Damon leaned back in his seat and took in the crowd of the club once more. "Do you dance at all, Doctor?"

_Ah—fuck it! If I'm here and he's offering, might as well make the most out of the situation,_ John thought and answered, "Yes, I do."

The younger man pushed himself to his feet before offering his hand to his shorter companion. "Care to join me then?"

There was no hesitation in him as he slid his hand into Damon's. Once they found themselves in the middle of the floor, John wondered at how easy it was for him to relax into the American's hold. To lean back against his muscular chest and relish in the heat of those hands on his hips as they began to sway to the pulsing rhythm.

Damon pressed his face to the left side of John's neck and inhaled the doctor's clean scent. He smelled of some exotic spice, earl grey tea, and wool. It was an odd combination but it worked, and it was intoxicating. He couldn't help himself as he licked and nipped at John's throbbing pulse point. While he liked partaking of blood play, he never bit a lover without their express consent beforehand. Though John had all but given him permission to have him, he was pretty sure that it didn't extend to drawing blood. Yet.

John's eyes closed of their own volition as that wicked mouth kissed on his neck in the most erotic way. He leaned further back against the American and raised his left hand and cupped the back of Damon's head to hold him in place as they danced. The doctor bit his lower lip as the sensation intensified and one hand that had previously been resting on his hip crept forward to rest on his lower abdomen, just above the waistband to his trousers.

On the other side of the club, Sherlock turned and scanned the dance floor once more. It was hard to make out who was who under the palpitating red strobe light. Because of that, it took him longer to spot John than it would have otherwise. When he finally found his blogger, his hand tightened around his glass so much that he felt it crack under the crushing pressure of his grip.

Lestrade took a sip of his beer and leaned back casually on the bar and glanced curiously over at Sherlock. He quickly looked over the writhing mass of bodies on the floor and found what had set off his consultant.

Wisely, he hid his amusement as he said to Sherlock, "You know…if you just gave John a good seeing to you wouldn't have this problem."

The genius' head whipped around and treated the DI to a rare shocked expression. "I beg your pardon?!"

"You heard me," Greg said before taking another drink.

"Why is everyone so concerned about whether John and I are shagging? Can't everyone just mind their own business?" the younger man groused, irritated.

"Well, you don't make it easy," the DI explained. "Besides, if you weren't so close to the situation—or if you observed another pair that was just like the two of you, you'd come to the conclusion that they were together in a romantic sense too. But I don't think you've given any thought to how John feels about it."

Sherlock scowled at Greg. "Why are we discussing this?"

"Did it ever occur to you to all he wants is a little of your attention?"

"I pay attention to him all the time!" the genius cried in frustration. "He's the one who is only willing to make a pass at me when he's drunk."

"If you weren't so wrapped up in yourself you'd notice that perhaps he's interested but is looking elsewhere because you won't give him the time of day!" Lestrade retorted, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs with his index finger to prove his point.

The genius opened his mouth the say something but the DI cut him off. "No—you shut up and listen for once in your Goddamn life, Sherlock! That man is crazy about you! I don't know if you've noticed, but John very clearly has a type when it comes to men: _you_. Any bloke he's paid attention to oddly resembles you. Look at Damon—he's nothing but a lookalike—a stand in for _you_!"

Sherlock straightened and set his fractured glass on the bar behind him. "Well, as enlightening as this evening has been, Lestrade, there's nothing more I can gain here tonight. If you find out anything that might be useful, let me know."

Greg threw his free hand up in agitation. It was just like the posh bastard to turn tail and run the minute someone said anything remotely uncomfortable about emotions. "Sherlock!" he called after him, but it was too late. The consulting detective was already too far away to hear him over the music.

John grinned as he gyrated his hips in sync with Damon's. It had been such a long time since he'd been out dancing and he'd quite missed it. He had never danced with a man before, but he found that he liked the strong arms wrapped around him, guiding him—to not be the one to lead for a change. And with the American behind him, he could very easily just pretend that he was Sherlock if he wanted to.

He was already half hard and was contemplating whether or not he was going to ask (or accept and offer) if Damon would be interested in joining him for...coffee.

John was on the verge of making that suggestion when by chance he glanced up and saw Sherlock making a beeline straight for them. The doctor stopped dancing and pulled away slightly from his companion. Damon let him go without a fuss and allowed him the space he required, to which John was grateful.

"So?" the older man asked once his flat mate was close enough.

The detective leaned in to inform him, "I've gotten what I can tonight."

"Right—well, then let's get out of here shall we?" John suggested, completely forgetting his previous contemplation over Damon in lieu of joining Sherlock.

The genius nodded and started for the exit. The doctor turned back to his dance partner and said, "I'm sorry—I've got to go."

Damon shook his head. "Don't be sorry—I know how cops are. And if you need anything or you'd like to continue this at some other time, call me." He slid his business card into the back pocket of John's tight leather trousers and gave his fleshy buttocks a squeeze.

The extremely forward move caused a jolt of _want_ to pulse straight to his cock. With a promise that he would indeed call, the doctor darted out of the club after his partner.

Lestrade stepped up to the American and started to move to the music. He leaned in to speak directly into his friend's ear, "Have a good time?" There was no small amount of amusement in that one question.

"I was _this_ close!" Damon growled as he put his hands on Greg's hips. Then he sighed and shook his head ruefully and declared, "I think I really need to stop caring—it just makes things worse when they don't work out in the end. Sex seems much less complicated and better when I decided I didn't care."

"Come on, Damon," Greg chided. "The sex wasn't good because you didn't care—it was good because you're crazy. And crazy sex is always good."

A wicked grin stretched across the younger man's face. The DI did have a point.

* * *

"Did you get what you needed then?" John asked once they were seated in the back of a nice warm cab on their way back home again.

Sherlock sighed and responded, "Yes and no. I've learned that the victim was a newcomer to the scene. Only been around the last four or five months at the most. He was intimately involved with the 'master vampire' of the so called coven—his name is Constantine, but it seems he's out of town at the moment and won't be returning until tomorrow night."

John's brow creased as he thought about that. "Well, he's not the murderer then. Are we going to come back then?"

"I don't see how we have a choice," the genius answered, clearly not pleased with the turn of events. "No one seems to know his real name and they wouldn't divulge any personal information about him either."

The doctor shrugged and said, "It might be that they really don't know that much about him. Come on—you saw how it was in there. I imagine that all those people know very little about one another's true identities. That's a place where you can essentially reinvent yourself and be who you want to be."

"Hmm…that's true, isn't it?" Sherlock considered the implications of his blogger's words. "As well as we think we comprehend someone—even those closest to us, how well do we truly know them?"

That statement was said in such an odd tone that John turned to fully regard his companion with a curious gaze. He was just about to open his mouth to ask what Sherlock meant—because it was apparent even to John that there was a secondary meaning behind it—when the cab pulled up in front of their flat.

John dutifully paid the driver before he crawled out of the backseat and bound up the stairs to their sitting room. Sherlock had already thrown off his coat was in the process of sprawling out on the couch in his standard thinking pose.

"So that's it for tonight?" the older man wondered. He was dying to get the hell out those damn trousers. No matter how fantastic they made his arse look, he couldn't take the leather anymore.

The consulting detective hummed in agreement as he closed his eyes. "Yes—I need to review the data. You're clearly uncomfortable, go change John."

"Oh, right. Umm, thanks," the doctor responded, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "I think I'm going to turn in and get some sleep while I can. If you need me, I know you'll come get me."

There was no reply as John stood there awkwardly for a moment debating on whether he should say something else, to bring up the last bit of their conversation from the cab ride home. After a brief internal debate, he decided to just let it go and turned to make his way to the stairs.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock called after him just as he reached the steps.

It was so uncharacteristic of his flat mate that it gave the doctor pause. "Night, Sherlock," he called back before ascending to his room.

The genius opened his eyes and stared silently at the ceiling as he listened to John's tired footsteps tread up the steps. The row he had earlier with Lestrade came back to him. Sherlock knew that John would never seek male companionship, in the intimate sense, outside himself. He wondered though if perhaps he hadn't made it quite clear to his blogger that he was indeed interested in the overtures being directed at him. The genius knew that it wasn't acceptable under any circumstances to take advantage of a drunk person, no matter how they threw themselves at you. The DI could hardly fault him for turning down the overtures he'd received the other night…

That meant that this was not a new occurrence and that Greg had privileged information…Sherlock immediately concluded that John had taken Lestrade into his confidence on a number of things. Logically he knew they were friends—after all they hung out and watched the football matches on occasion and went out to the pub fairly regularly—so he shouldn't have been surprised to learn that the DI knew a bit more than Sherlock believed he did. Which meant that John had told Greg of his feelings for the consulting detective.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. Emotional affairs were always so messy. They also got in the way of the work—because here he was thinking about _John_ and his damned _feelings_ instead of focusing on the case like he should have been doing. So closing his eyes once more, the genius toted that additional baggage to the room he had dedicated to John in his mind palace. He threw the information in there and mentally slammed the door shut before any other stray thoughts could escape.

This was precisely why he didn't do relationships—they were so tedious.

* * *

**Please every one just bare with me-we've just had a new head boss come in a work and he's making a bloody mess of everything. And his asinine demands have seriously cut into my free time and my ability to write Johnlock porn. Clearly we do not have the same priorities. I will write as much as I can on my days off to make sure you don't have to go too long without an update. And thank you all for reading! You guys are the best!**


	6. An Interesting Proposition

**I am so incredibly sorry for the delay! Suffice it to say that right now, my job sucks and has effected my ability to write :/ BUT-I hope that this chapter will make up for my absence...so this is my peace offering to you, my darlings. And the next chapter is almost done-I swear.**

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John came down the following morning to Sherlock in the same exact position as when had had left. He briefly wondered if his flat mate had moved at all. After deciding that he really didn't care, he made his way gingerly into the kitchen to start the kettle for his morning cuppa.

Sherlock smirked to himself as he watched his blogger's careful steps. Perhaps he should have warned John about the side effects of leather trousers, but this was just too amusing. Though he hoped that his good little doctor would have realized how utterly gorgeous his derriere looked in those trousers… _Mmm_…

As soon as that image crossed his mind, the genius grimaced and had to shift slightly in order to head off a problem that would have otherwise arisen from that track of thought. So instead, he immediately changed tracks and with a flurry of movement, was off the couch.

Hearing motion, the doctor turned to watch his partner stalk off down the hall. He just shook his head and went about his preparations as usual. Without a second thought, John began making Sherlock's tea as well. When he was adding the final touches with sugar, the genius appeared at his elbow.

"Here," Sherlock offered, handing him a little glass jar filled with a spicy-scented ointment. "This will help with the chafing."

John accepted the container and eyed it curiously. "Thanks. What is it?"

"Something of my own design," the detective remarked. "Works better than any of the creams out on the market." At his blogger's hesitation, Sherlock sighed in indignation and made a shooing motion with his hand. "Just put it on—you'll feel better."

"Umm, alright…" John finally agreed and headed into the loo with the jar clutched tightly in his hand.

Sherlock was taking the first sip of his tea when it occurred to him that he had forgotten to tell John some very crucial information about the ointment. In only a few strides of his long legs, the detective was standing outside the closed bathroom door. After hearing the hushed sound of a zip being pulled down, he called through the portal, "John?"

On the other side, there was a startled shriek and the smack of a hand being braced against the tiled wall. "What?!"

"I just thought I should tell you that it needs to be applied generously to the affected area," Sherlock explained.

"Okay—ta!"

"Oh! And John?"

"Yes?"

"You may want to take precaution to avoid contact with your genitals," the genius warned. "It also has the unfortunate side effect of working as a topical aphrodisiac when applied to sex organs."

That statement was met with the sound of several of the items on the sink being knocked to the floor. Sherlock smirked again and made his way back into the kitchen.

* * *

Several hours later, they were seated in the back of taxi headed on their way to the Admiral's Arms to question the recently returned Constantine. Lestrade had managed to convince one of the doormen to contact him when the vampire arrived back at the club. The DI had just texted Sherlock twenty minutes ago to inform them that they could go question the man.

Sherlock smirked to himself as he stared out the window and watched is beloved city fly by.

John indulged himself in a sideways glance at his partner and caught the smug expression on the younger man's face. "Well?" he asked finally.

"Go on and say it."

The doctor sighed and responded, "You were right."

"Of course I am. Are you feeling better then?"

"Yes—your ointment worked far better than anything I could have bought on the market," John praised. "Just one more thing in a long list that makes you remarkable."

The smirk morphed into a genuine smile at the compliment. "Well, I couldn't let you suffer, now could I? Technically I could have, but I need you at your best and if you're hobbling about due to a rash, it will slow down our progress."

Shaking his head, John laughed and turned to gaze out his window. "Of course it would," he muttered. Sherlock could never just do something nice without somehow having an ulterior motive behind it. Or, more to the point, the genius always needed to have others believe he did things for selfish reasons. But others weren't John—he knew better. Despite all his nattering on the matter, Sherlock was not a sociopath. But God forbid anyone ever think Sherlock was a decent, considerate person…

Luckily, the doctor was spared further contemplation on the matter when the cab finally pulled up in front of the nondescript entrance to the club. He turned and gave his partner a pointed look. With a heavy sigh indicating that he was highly inconvenienced, Sherlock dug out his wallet and paid their fare. Tab settled, they both slid out of the car. John grinned to himself as they stepped out onto the pavement.

"Oh—don't look so pleased with yourself," the consulting detective huffed as he jammed his hands into his coat pockets and strode towards the door. "Don't think you have me trained in any way."

Instinctually he reached for the door handle and pulled it open and stepped aside to let John enter first. The doctor couldn't help it, he burst out laughing as he stepped around Sherlock into the darkened foyer.

"Damnit!" the younger man exclaimed when he realized what he had done.

John's laughter trailed off into a giggles as he declared, "And they say that chivalry is dead!"

"Not a word to anyone," Sherlock hissed as they waited at the second inside entrance for someone to come let them in.

"Yes," John agreed, grinning ear to ear. "God forbid we ruin your reputation and let people think you're actually a decent bloke."

"That would be a travesty," the genius echoed as a skinny wisp of what John could only describe as a boy unlocked the door and held it open to let them in.

"Mr. Holmes?" the boy greeted as he leaned back to be able to look at Sherlock's face. Upon affirmation, the child waved them forward to indicate they should follow him. "Midnight said that he had spoken to DI Lestrade at Scotland Yard and that we should expect you. Said you were looking to speak with Master Constantine?"

"Um, yes—we are," the doctor replied before his partner could answer.

The boy nodded and led them through the main floor of the club to a dark hallway that was roped off to the right of the bar. "The Master has his own private quarters here."

John glanced around curiously, interested in the surroundings. The club looked significantly different with the lights on and without the massive crush of people. After having given a cursory glance at everything, the doctor returned his attention to their guide.

"No offense, but, um…are you old enough to actually be at this club?" he asked.

The boy laughed and stopped in front of a closed, padded leather door. "Yeah, I get that a lot. I'm nineteen, so don't worry—I'm here legally. And this is the Master's lair." He knocked on the door frame and waited for an answer within. When it was given, their guide swung the portal open and allowed them to step past him.

This room, like the rest of the club, was interesting. It was what John would consider a typical "vampire's lair". The walls were wallpapered with a black moiré satin and the seating was all antique settees and chairs with brass framework and deep red velvet cushions. The lighting was entirely comprised of candles, either set in wall sconces or in giant candelabras set around the room. On the floor, there was an expensive Persian rug in deep jewel tones that somehow managed to pull the whole look together. There was also a private entrance in the far right corner where the owner of these accommodations could come and go without his vast array of minions being aware.

And speaking of the master and his minions, the person whom John could only assume was Constantine was lounging on an oversized chair in the middle of the room surrounded by people fawning all over him. When Sherlock and the doctor stepped fully into the chamber, the man in question looked up at them with unveiled curiosity.

John's breath caught in his throat as he locked gazes with the stranger. His eyes were a stunning light green—an odd shade that the doctor had only seen once in his lifetime, a beautiful peridot. The man also had high distinctive cheekbones, though they weren't as prominent as his flat mate's since the vampire's face was fuller. If that wasn't enough, the man also had the same shade of curly hair as Sherlock's, only his was shoulder length. Based on the proportions of his limbs, John guessed that Constantine was even around the same height as his best friend. _God, if Sherlock gained a few pounds, this man could be him… _

"I'm sorry my darlings, can you please excuse us? Daddy has some business to attend to," the vampire said to his entourage without breaking eye contact with John.

Five of the six minions all slithered out of the room without another word. The last was a willowy platinum blond who was sitting on Constantine's lap with his arms around the other's shoulders. The doctor recognized him as one of the bartenders from the previous night.

"Dante, my love, could you go ensure that we are fully stocked for tonight? We mustn't upset the coven with a lack of alcohol," Constantine directed in a pleasingly smooth tenor.

Dante sighed as he slid off his lover's lap and sauntered past the detectives. He winked up at Sherlock and ran his hand down the genius' arm before purposely squeezing between the flat mates, brushing up against them both in turn. Sherlock clenched his jaw in aggravation at the unwanted touch while John merely smirked at his partner's discomfort.

"Please excuse him—Dante is rather young still and has not figured out that not everyone enjoys being manhandled," Constantine told them after observing the consulting detective's annoyance. "Terrible manners, that one despite all my teachings to the contrary."

"A full-time occupation I'm sure," John responded with a sympathetic smile for their host.

"Indeed it is," the vampire agreed with a laugh as he got to his feet. He crossed the distance between them and offered his hand first to the younger man. "You must be the great Sherlock Holmes. An honor to meet you." The genius shook the proffered hand with a slight upward curl of his lips that indicated that he was merely being polite for his blogger's sake.

Then the man turned to his blogger. "And you must be Doctor John Watson. It's truly a pleasure to finally meet you." His fingers gripped John's and lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary, as did his eye contact. "I read your blog and I must say—I find what you do…_fascinating_…"

The doctor blushed a little under the extra attention and prayed that his partner wouldn't notice. He did not want another tirade like yesterday's simply because the man had paid him a compliment. So he was relieved when the vampire master returned to his seat and indicated that they should sit with him.

"Now, tell me what I can do for you," Constantine stated. "One of my enforcers, Midnight, informed me that one of the fold was staked just yesterday morning and that a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade was here with you last evening asking questions."

"Yes, Mr…Constantine," Sherlock confirmed as he took a seat across from the vampire. "We were here last night to try and gain some insight into why someone might want to have harmed Mr. Chuck Werthnor, or Dimitri, as he was most likely known to you and your friends."

The vampire master leaned back in his chair and casually crossed his legs before replying, "He was a sweet young man. New to our coven. I do try to make every member feel comfortable. He seemed like he was making friends though. Dimitri was an easygoing bloke. Didn't have problems with anyone that I saw."

John frowned and asked, "So you're absolutely positive that there was no one baring a grudge against him that you can think of?"

Constantine shook his head. "No, can't say that I did. Though as much as I try to keep tabs on everyone in my coven, I simply can't be everywhere at once."

Sherlock sighed in frustration, feeling that this was turning out to be a waste of time after all. The master vampire noticed the detective's disappointment and added, "Though, what I don't pick up via observations, Dante is an invaluable in terms of gossip. Working at the bar, the patrons speak freely to him, seeing him as a harmless they tend to be loose-lipped. If you want gossip, he's the person you'll want to talk to. But there's been nothing out of the ordinary that I can recall—nothing that would raise a red flag, so to speak. Disputes between coven members are always brought immediately to my attention by my staff. I strive to make this a place of acceptance and harmony where my people can be who they are without judgment from the outside world. So I assure you, any grievances are dealt with immediately before they get out of hand."

Sherlock nodded, a thoughtful look on his face as he took in the vampire's words. "I would like to speak with Dante. He was rather busy last night tending the bar."

Constantine smiled, revealing long pointed fangs. "I had suspected you might. He's just out on the main floor stocking the bar. Dante will be happy to answer any questions you might have—I have already spoken with him on the matter and have informed him that he is to offer any assistance he can."

With that, the genius stood and regarded John a questioning expression. The doctor looked up and gave a slight nod that only his partner saw. Sherlock turned back to the vampire and replied, "While I do that, it would be helpful if you could tell John anything that comes to mind about your coven members—the tiniest detail might be a clue, even if it doesn't pertain to Dimitri. Perhaps there was a recent disagreement that he wasn't necessarily a main participant in but perhaps was a secondary party?"

"Yes, of course," Constantine placated. "Go do what you do best, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson and I can entertain ourselves here, I promise you."

The tightening around the corners of his partner's eyes was the only indication that he was not pleased with the turn of events. He no doubt did not want to leave his blogger with this man, but he trusted John and this would go much more quickly if they split up the interviewing process.

The doctor turned and watched as his flat mate waltzed out of the room. He didn't bring his attention back to their host until the heavy door had shut with a definitive thud. Those odd green eyes regarded him with such an intense interest that it caused him to swallow hard.

"Tell me, Doctor," Constantine began with a predatory smile curling his full, sensual lips, "Fancy a night out with a vampire? Ever consider a little blood play?"

John gave a laugh at the blatant flirting. At least this bloke cut right to the chase. "You assume that this is my first time in the presence of sanguinarians."

Constantine's eyebrows shot up at the comment. "Oh? Do you enjoy it?"

"Depends on the other participant," John replied coyly. He had no idea what was possessing him to flirt with this man, but he couldn't help himself. Okay—if he was being honest with himself, John knew exactly why—Constantine looked so strikingly similar to his best friend that it would take very little to image that they were in fact the same person.

"What if I were to ask? Would you award me that honor?"

"Perhaps…"

"Blood is our life force, my dear doctor—though I know I needn't tell you. It's sacred, as is the bond between the giver and receiver of such a gift. I would never take unless it was freely offered," the vampire murmured, his stare burrowing into the older man's. The doctor had an odd feeling that they weren't just taking about blood anymore.

"Very poetic, romantic even," John answered. "And believe me—that is something you couldn't take unless I chose to give it."

Silence stretched between them as both men contemplated each other for several long moments. The vampire was the first to break it.

"But are you free to give?" wondered Constantine with a tilt to his head.

John blinked in surprise at the question and responded honestly, "I'm sorry? You mean am I involved with _Sherlock_? No—we're not—um, yeah, no."

"Forgive me, then. I assumed you and Mr. Holmes had a more intimate relationship," Constantine informed him.

That caused the doctor to laugh. "Yeah, people normally assume that. Not sure what that really says about us, but we're most definitely _not_ together in that sense. And if you thought that, you were flirting quite heavily with an attached man then…"

The vampire merely shrugged and replied, "That's what I do. Bad habit. Caused many a jealous lover to become angry with me in my day."

He considered that momentarily before he stood up. "Well, I should just go check on him," John stated and rubbed the back of his neck as he gazed down at that expensive Persian rug.

"I've made you uncomfortable," Constantine declared softly as he also got to his feet and took a few steps to bring him closer to the doctor.

"What?" John asked in disbelief. "No—no, not at all. I should just go make sure he hasn't reduced your staff to tears. He tends to be a little forceful at times during his investigations if not held in check." With that, he turned his back on the other and headed towards the leather door leading to the club.

Suddenly there were strong arms embracing him from behind and a warmth that made him relax instantly into the hold. Yes—this is what he had been wanting for so long.

"You might not be involved with Mr. Holmes, but you would like to be," Constantine observed quietly, his hot breath ghosting over the delicate skin of John's ear. "I saw the way you looked at him. You want him. We bare a striking resemblance to one another—why not allow me to fulfil your fantasy. Pretend that I am him, if just for the night…"

~0_o~

Sherlock strode back into the private lounge with confidence, knowing he had finally acquired a bit of useful information from the "vampire's" boy toy. The grin on his face quickly dissolved into a ferocious snarl when he entered the room to find Constantine's arms wrapped around John's waist from behind. His blogger had his eyes closed and his head tilted to the side to allow the master better access to his neck.

The vampire murmured something too low for the genius to hear, but whatever was said caused his doctor to shiver. He watched, horrified, as John sighed and slid a hand up through Constantine's long, silky hair. Without realizing he had done so, a savage growl escaped Sherlock's throat.

In that instant, John's indigo orbs snapped open and locked onto his. "We're leaving, John. We have what _we_ need," he ground out in irritation and then leveled vampire with a pointed stare, as if daring him to challenge him.

The doctor gave a nod and stepped out of the other man's embrace, intent on following his partner out the side door that led into an alley. There had been a strange fire in Sherlock's eyes—he wasn't sure if he should be thrilled or terrified by that look…

Just as he made it to the doorway, Constantine called out to him and he paused on the threshold to turn back to regard the vampire. "Oh, John?"

"Er, yes?"

"If you ever find yourself free from your tall, dark, and mysterious 'flat mate', let me know…I would love to…_taste_…you."

John just managed to stifle the whine threatening to spill from him by biting his bottom lip. He gave a nod before slipping out the door. It slammed shut behind him with a deafening bang that caused his anxiety level to ratchet up another notch. Sherlock was already several meters ahead of him so he had to jog to catch up.

"Sherlock! Would you just wa—"

Without warning the consulting detective spun around and slammed John against the brick wall. "What in God's name was _that_ back there?!" Sherlock demanded as he effectively pinned his blogger using his additional height and long arms to cage the older man.

"With Constantine? What are you talking about?"

"You bloody well know what I'm talking about!" the genius hissed. "Why is it you only have the nerve to voice your attraction to me when you're drunk? _Never_ have you _once_ come to me sober asking for this kind of attention—but then these other men suddenly show up! And coincidentally, they happen to be just around my height, they have similar light eyes like mine, they have the same dark hair—save for the style. Are you noticing a _pattern_ here yet, John? If you wanted me, all you had to do was say so…"

The doctor licked his lips nervously and was about to respond when Sherlock's mouth claimed his without further warning. That clever tongue thrust against his, staking ownership as a boney knee—attached to a surprisingly muscular thigh—forcefully parted his own. John reached up and grabbed onto his best friend's arms for support as all the blood in his body seemed to be automatically diverted straight to his cock, leaving him dizzy and lightheaded.

He let out a frustrated groan when that thigh between his rocked into his groin.

"Finally willing to admit it?" Sherlock questioned, that strange fire was back in his blue-green eyes again. It caused butterflies to flutter in the older man's stomach.

John weakly replied, "But you're married to your work."

"Yes—and you're not gay, but as you said the other night, 'I'll make an exception for you'."

He was helpless as he stared back into that all-knowing gaze, mesmerized by the intensity of those eyes now so close to his own. John swallowed several times in attempt to say something—anything—but nothing came out. Sherlock solved that quite easily by taking speech off the table when his lips one again descended on his blogger's.

This time, John was better prepared for the onslaught and fought for dominance of the kiss. He nipped at Sherlock's lower lip and as soon as that cupid's bow parted at the sensation, the doctor swept in and demanded surrender. The genius, however was not willing to relinquish control and it resulted in the harsh clashing of teeth and split lips.

Never one to fight fair when he could so do underhandedly, Sherlock reached his right hand down and palmed John's erection through his trousers. The resulting gasp awarded him dominance over the kiss and the younger man wasted no time in thoroughly plundering his blogger's mouth.

Then like a blitz attack, Sherlock's calloused musician's hand swiftly unbuttoned his jeans and pulled down the zip before it plunged into the front of his trousers and down into his pants to stroke him root to tip.

John tore his mouth away from his partner's and wheezed at the unexpected contact. He threw his head back against the wall and tried to catch his breath.

"Oh, look how hard you are for me," the detective stated right before he latched onto the exposed skin of his blogger's neck. He licked and sucked at his pulse point, knowing that it would turn the doctor on even more. He twisted his wrist and pumped his hand up and down in the manner that he himself preferred—and the way that his companion responded said that the older man also liked it very much.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock's low voice rumbled in his ear, causing a very curious spine-tingling reaction, "do you think about me when you pleasure yourself?"

All the doctor could do in response was moan at the glorious pressure those long, violinist fingers were awarding him. God! Having someone else's hand wrapped around his cock had never felt this good before! _Of course, none of those other hands were ever Sherlock's_, his brain supplied unhelpfully.

"Well? Answer me!" the detective barked as his fingers squeezed unmercifully tighter, bringing a sharp edge of pain along with the pleasure. Heaven help him, but John absolutely _loved_ it.

When he opened his mouth to respond, his first inclination was to tell Sherlock to fuck off, or to lie…but that's not what he did. The filter between his thoughts and his mouth had completed disengaged somewhere in the process, so John told his mad flat mate the truth. No doubt the genius would have known he was lying if he had anyway. "Yes! Alright?! Yes! Think 'bout your lips wrapped 'round me—" John choked out, gripping his best friend's biceps through that bloody coat.

"Mmm, of course you do," Sherlock purred against his throat. His silver-edged tongue laved at the sensitive skin just below John's ear, causing the doctor's knees to go weak. "I'm so very proud of you—finally being able to admit your attraction to me. I catch you doing it, you know? I see it when you stare at me when you think I'm not paying attention, or the way you watch my mouth when I speak…how listening to my deductions turns you on—don't think I don't notice you trying to subtly shift around trying to alleviate the pressure of your hard on at a crime scene—you're good, John, but not _that_ good. I see _everything_."

"_Sherlock_!"

"Yes—don't you ever forget that it's _me_ you lust after! It's _me_ you fantasize about in bed—because trust me, John—no other man can compare to _me_," the genius continued as he quickened the motion of his hand, setting a brutal rhythm that he knew would bring his partner to a razor's edge within seconds.

"Please, Sh'lock!" the older man begged. "Gonna—" Before he could finish the statement, Sherlock materialized a silk handkerchief from _somewhere_ and the brush of its softness against the overly sensitized tip of his shaft caused John to go over.

He parted his lips to scream but found Sherlock's tongue forcing its way into his mouth instead, swallowing his cries with a fierce possessive kiss as the doctor's orgasm ripped through him with blinding intensity.

They were both silent for several long moments afterwards, raggedly breathing in the same air. And then just like that, Sherlock seemed to come to his senses and took a step back. John forced his eyes opened at the sudden lack of warmth and regarded his best friend with no small amount of trepidation. The silk handkerchief disappeared in the same manner that it had appeared, and that stoic mask he hated so much had descended back over the younger man's features.

Sherlock blinked once before turning on his heels and stalking down the narrow passageway without saying a word, leaving a very confused John sagging against the rough brick wall wondering what in the hell had just happened.


	7. Broken Glass

**I am so incredibly sorry for the delay. Suffice it to say that real life kind of sucks at the moment, but there is definitely more to come...**

* * *

John had no idea where Sherlock had gone and by the time he had collected himself enough to stagger out of the alley, the genius was nowhere to be seen. He probably should have hailed a cab considering the part of town he was in, but the doctor felt like he needed to walk. It never failed to help clear his head and he was able to just let his mind wander a bit.

So he let his feet take him where they will without consideration for the direction he was headed. John was somewhat surprised when he finally came to a stop outside of a familiar building. Perhaps there was someone he could talk about his flat mate's odd behavior this afternoon after all. And who better to give him insight than the only other person who knew what it was like to work so closely with Sherlock?

Without dwelling on the problem further, John pushed open the front door to NSY and waved in greeting to the officer manning the front desk. When he made it up to Greg's office, he was grateful that the DI was actually there—which was something he had failed to factor into this non-plan of his.

Lestrade looked up from the file in his hand and grinned at the doctor. "John! What brings you here? Sherlock lurking about somewhere?"

John unconsciously rubbed the back of his neck and answered, "Um, no. I actually have no idea where he is at the moment."

Frowning, Greg immediately noticed his friend's distress and set his papers down before motioning for the doctor to close the door. He had a feeling that this was a conversation that John didn't want the rest of the team to overhear. "What's wrong? Did Sherlock do something?"

Sighing heavily, John dropped down into one of the chairs across from the DI. Before responding, he rubbed his face vigorously as if it would help to dissipate the issue. "Yes, Sherlock—what else?"

"Was there a problem with that master…vampire, Constantine?" Lestrade wanted to know as he leaned forward in his seat.

"I suppose you could say that," the doctor answered cautiously and avoided eye contact.

Greg regarded his friend silently for several seconds before realization dawned on him. "Oh God—tell me what happened…"

John slumped forward with his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor. "The guy hit on me, which wasn't a problem in and of itself really. But God—you should see this bloke, Greg! Could be Sherlock's identical twin…anyway…my mad flat mate went into another room to question someone else and I was in with Constantine. Well, he…um…came onto me and Sherlock walked back in and found us in somewhat of a compromising position."

After revealing this, the doctor glanced up and caught the horrified expression on the DI's face. "Oh God no! Nothing like that!" he clarified. "But Sherlock was rather cross about it, ducked out of the door into the back alley… I followed him…"

"And then what happened?" Lestrade prompted quietly after John's story tapered off.

At the furious blush that colored John's cheeks, Greg had a pretty good idea of what happened next. "So I take it that he was the one to make the first move, yeah?"

With a self-conscious laugh, the doctor confirmed his friend's assumption. "Ah, yeah. Yes, he did. Pushed me up against the wall and snogged me senseless. And, um, nattered on a bit about how all these guys fit a pattern—that they all look like him—he's right you know. But...so now he knows that I…fancy him."

The DI sat back in his chair and fiddled with his pen. "Well how about that?"

"Greg—this is a disaster!"

"How do you figure? Because as I see it, this is a good thing."

"What can possibly be good about this situation?!"

"Well, he kissed you didn't he?"

John stared back at his friend stunned. Lestrade grinned and continued, "I swear, the two of you! For being such intelligent blokes, you're both absolutely clueless. It's been obvious to everyone else around you that the two of you have been dancing around your attraction to each other for far too long. Hell—half of London thinks you're already shagging! So—as far as I can see, this is nothing but a good thing."

"I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am. I know about these things."

They both burst out laughing at that. The doctor felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He was glad that he could trust Greg with this. "Thanks, mate. I feel loads better now."

"You're welcome," the DI said. "So as I see it, ball's in your court now. You can now feel free to pursue the mad bastard however you see fit—and I'm assuming he's waiting for you to make the next move."

"I appreciate your insight, Greg," John declared to his friend. "Now we just need to get you sorted out."

Lestrade shook his head and replied, "I'm fine, believe me."

"Yeah—especially with a 'friend' like Damon, I'm sure!" John said with a grin.

"No idea what you're talking about," the DI muttered as he deflected the comment by taking a sip of his now cold coffee.

The doctor leveled him with a skeptical look. "Sure, because from what I observed, you two seemed a little friendly last night—despite the fact that he was clearly trying to pull me—means that you two have history but nothing serious…which tells me that whatever is between you it's more casual…that says…friends with benefits?"

"I think that you've been spending too much time with Holmes," was all Greg had to say in response.

John giggled and relaxed a little in his seat. "And I'm not the only one. Seems there's been a certain politician of the British government lurking about a bit lately…"

Greg rolled his eyes in response. "Oh come off it! Mycroft is just a friend."

"What? In the same way that Damon is a friend or the same way that Sherlock and I are friends? Please."

"You're reading too much into this, John," the DI warned. "He might be my best friend but that doesn't mean there's anything more than that."

"Mmmhmm. How's the weather up _that_ river this time of year?" the doctor asked pointedly with an unconvinced look. "The man brings you dinner when he knows you're stuck in the office late working a case! He knows your favorite take-away place and what you order!"

Lestrade sighed and ran his left hand through his hair in an agitated manner but didn't say anything. John shook his head and responded, "Seriously? You know all about my infatuation with Sherlock and yet you don't trust me enough to confide in me about Mycroft? I'm hurt, Greg."

"It's not like that," the DI assured him. "I just didn't want to voice it—afraid it might be just an illusion."

The doctor thought about that for a moment. "I'm assuming the attraction is mutual, yeah?"

"A bit of flirting I suppose, and little touches here and there that aren't strictly necessary…so I would say so," agreed Greg.

"Ugh, look at us!" the doctor declared with a grin and a shake of his head. "What complete idiots are we that we go and fall for two of the most emotionally unavailable men in all of Britain?"

"Now I wouldn't say that," Lestrade defended the brothers. "Emotionally stunted, yes—unavailable, no."

"Either way, I need a drink after all this!"

"You said it, mate…"

* * *

His talk with Greg had done much to settle his frayed nerves. Feeling a bit better about what had transpired that afternoon outside the club, John finally felt ready to face his flat mate once again. Though despite that, part of him still wished that the flat would be empty when he returned home. When the doctor poked his head cautiously through the door to their sitting room and found it deserted, he breathed a sigh of relief and hung up his jacket.

John instinctually rolled his shoulders to try and loosen the tension that had built back up on the tube ride home to the flat. After marshaling his thoughts back into order, he strode with resolution into the kitchen and filled the kettle before switching it on. With a sigh he braced his hands on the worktop and hung his head to stretch out the muscles in his neck.

He was just on the verge of relaxing when just behind him there was a sudden warmth and breath on the back of his neck. "John…" that deep baritone rumbled in his left ear.

The doctor jumped and uttered a very unmanly squeak that he would swear afterwards that did not, in fact, come from him. Instinctually, Sherlock took several steps back to give his blogger some space, lest he end up with a fist in his face.

"Jesus! Sherlock! Don't sneak up on me like that!" John yelled as he turned around to face his flat mate.

Sherlock slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his whole affect giving off an aura of nonchalance as the buttons on that damn purple silk shirt strained against the pull of his shoulders being set. It made his partner more irritated than having been snuck up on.

John crossed his arms over his chest and glared as hard as he could. A shiver raced down Sherlock's spine as he fell under that weight of that stare and for the first time, he realized how formidable the former army captain must have been staring down his troops. It did something for the genius. He suddenly felt more alive in that moment than he had in any other up to that point. Thousands of thoughts and desires raced through his mind in a matter of mere seconds and he wondered how he ever managed to live without John.

"It wasn't my intention to startle you," Sherlock purred, giving no hint to his inner turmoil. "I thought you had heard me approach."

The doctor eyed him critically and demanded, "So what's this, then? What are you on about?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You bloody well know what I mean!" John hissed, the calmness he had felt upon leaving Greg's office had abruptly morphed into a near blinding rage. "What the hell was all that back in the alley? I don't know what to think, Sherlock! You say you're married to your work and yet you purposely destroy all of my relationships, you act like a jealous housewife when another man shows me the least bit of attention, and then you get me off in a seedy alleyway behind a club—in the middle of the day!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be impatient. He rolled his eyes and gestured wildly with this hands as he took a step towards his blogger. "As ever, you see but do not observe, John!"

"Oh no you don't! Do _not_ turn this back on me!" the doctor shouted, advancing on his companion.

"Well _you're_ the one sending mixed signals!"

"Me?! _I'm_ sending mixed signals?! Who just tossed _me_ off?!"

"You can't even admit your attraction to me! How else was I supposed to get the point across?"

"Umm, maybe by telling me instead of just shoving your hand down my pants!"

"Fine! Is that what you want, then?!" the younger man cried out, his face flushed and eyes flashing with that strange heat once again. "You're a bloody distraction! I should be focused on the case instead of on you! But instead of worrying about the killer, I'm concerned whether or not you're going to allow some mentally disturbed, delusional nut job who plays at being a vampire drain you of your fluids!"

A dark, warped sense of pleasure coursed through John at that particular choice of words and he responded in a low, menacing growl, "Oh yes! I bet he'd be fucking fantastic at 'draining my fluids' and I have half a mind to let him. And after I've let him drink his fill, I'd shove him face first onto the nearest surface and fuck the daylights out of him."

Sherlock barely managed to swallow back the moan that threatened to spill from his mouth at that imagery. "No you won't," he commanded with just enough force that he didn't sound as breathless as he actually was.

John took one last step, bringing him into the detective's personal space until they were chest to chest and he had to crane his neck back to look up into Sherlock's face. "Won't I?"

And that was _it_. There had never been a challenge more enticing than that. With a feral whine, the younger man crushed his blogger to him as he grabbed both sides of John's face in his hands. The doctor immediately boosted himself up on the tips of his toes to meet that sinful cupid's bow half way.

The older man dug his fingers into his partner's protruding hipbones with a bruising force. At Sherlock's resulting gasp at the pressure, John slipped his tongue into the genius' mouth and thoroughly explored the inside of that wet, smooth cavern.

He helplessly surrendered to the domineering force that was John Watson as he was snogged senseless. In a matter of minutes, Sherlock was painfully hard, his erection straining against his zip. He was caught completely off guard when John's warm, calloused hand managed not only to open his trousers, but closed around his throbbing cock. Sherlock mewed into John's mouth at the sensation.

"Doesn't seem so fair, now does it?" John whispered, pushing down the genius' trousers and pants.

"Fair?" the detective panted as he allowed his blogger to manhandle him a few steps backwards.

Without so much as a warning, John slid his hands around to Sherlock's plush arse and hoisted him up onto the table. The younger man struggled for a moment, trying to kick off his shoes so that his trousers wouldn't be tangled around his ankles. He had just succeeded at this when John forced his knees apart to stand between them. Sherlock grabbed a fistful of the doctor's jumper and hauled him closer in order to smash their lips together again.

John nipped and licked at his mouth as his left hand dipped back down between his legs. Sherlock was so distracted that he wasn't aware what happening until the doctor ducked to the right and made a grand sweeping motion with his arm and all the crap that was on the table went crashing to the floor. The genius winced as he heard several of his beakers and petri dishes shatter on impact when they met the tiled floor, but John was finally right where he wanted him.

"So is this what _you_ wanted?" the older man questioned as he thrust his hips forward into his flat mate's. "Nothing as shady as a dark alleyway, but I bet you would love for me just to bend over this very table and fuck you. Take my pleasure in that tight, perk arse of yours…you'd enjoy that wouldn't you?"

"God, yes!" Sherlock gasped, desperate for just that.

Without any warning, the genius was suddenly face first on the wooden surface beneath him with his backside sticking up in the air. His cock throbbed as he felt John drop to his knees behind him and as those calloused hands kneaded both of his gluts. Sherlock's face flushed in embarrassment as his cheeks were separated exposing his most intimate parts.

Hot breath ghosting over his opening and Sherlock bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut against the sensation as a shiver racked his body.

John hummed in approval as he took in his friend in this vulnerable position. "Are you a virgin, Sherlock?" he asked softly. "Has anyone touched you like this?"

The younger man only managed an inarticulate cry in response, which was just as well because the doctor chose that moment to lean forward to lick at his rosy colored opening. He squirmed against the sensation of John's tongue lapping at his sensitive flesh. No one had ever done this to him before and it was nearly blowing his mind.

He'd only done this a handful of times, but John had never enjoyed performing this act as much as he did with his best friend—Sherlock was so responsive to his touch. And the delicious noises the detective was making turned him on all the more. Blindly, he reached for the jar of olive oil he knew had been on the table before he had shoved everything off moments ago. John nearly crowed in triumph when his fingers closed around the bottle without managing to cut himself on the broken glass.

Without stopping his current ministrations, the doctor unscrewed the cap and tipped some of the oil out onto his fingers. When he was sure he had enough, John finally pulled away. Sherlock whimpered in protest at the loss of his blogger's talented tongue.

"Shh, I've got you," John whispered in reassurance. He kissed one plump cheek before resting a slicked up finger against the genius' fluttering opening to trace at the muscle.

In a strangled voice, Sherlock begged, "Please!"

Grinning like a fool, John slowly pushed his index finger in until it was past the second knuckle. The detective's body offered minimal resistance thanks to his previous preparations. Taking his own sweet time, the doctor worked meticulously until he had added three fingers and Sherlock was stretched and pliant beneath him. Only then did John remove his fingers.

The older man stood back up and took a moment to admire his handiwork. He was quite pleased with himself, having reduced his brilliant flat mate to little more than a babbling mess. A delicate pink blush had crept onto Sherlock's ivory pale skin, making it all the more enticing. In that moment, John knew that he would never be able to live without this.

"Dear God—please tell me now if you don't want this, Sherlock," John beseeched. "I'm not going to be able to stop if you don't say something now."

"Please," the younger man whined again as reaching back to grab ahold of his blogger's left hip in an attempt to pull him closer. "Want this—you. Please John."

That was all the confirmation he needed. John fished his wallet out of his back pocket and retrieved the condom stashed there as he unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out of its confines. He discarded the leather billfold, condemning it to the mess on the floor before he tore open the wrapper of the prophylactic with his teeth and rolled it deftly onto his straining erection. John gripped the base and squeezed hard to take the edge off as he lined himself up. Any reservations he might have had were immediately dispelled when Sherlock pushed back to meet him.

The genius let out a choked off cry as John finally entered him. Thanks to his doctor's careful preparations, it barely hurt at all. He had lifted his head to say something—he wasn't quite sure what—when John hit his prostate with full force. The words were abandoned on his tongue as he thumped his forehead onto the wooden surface below him and called out John's name instead.

It was sweaty, brutal, and fast paced as John pistoned in and out of him but Sherlock loved every second of it and his mind briefly wondered why he hadn't thought it worth the time to do this before now. That was especially true when his blogger's iron grasp held his hips hard enough to leave lasting marks on his skin. The detective had to grip the edge of the table for dear life as the power behind the thrusts driving him closer to madness slammed him into the table with every passing blow. His cock strained painfully and his bollocks were tight and heavy between his legs but he didn't dare risk removing a hand from its position.

He babbled incoherently as the intensive pleasure hammered at his body without relent.

Behind him, John gave a breathless laugh and declared, "Never thought it'd be possible to reduce you to such a mess! Had I known, would have done this ages ago!"

Sherlock gave an indignant squawk that trailed off in a scream. He fought to articulate what he needed to convey. "Cl-close!" he stuttered.

"M'too. Got you, love," John murmured. "Let go—I got you."

With those words, an orgasm so intense his brain shut down ripped through the detective with lightening hot heat.

At the feeling of Sherlock's body contracting around him, the doctor was tipped over the edge just a few seconds later. His knees buckled at the sensation and he collapsed onto his flat mate. For several long minutes, they both just laid there draped over the table, struggling to catch their breath.

When he was sure that his legs would support his weight again, John struggled back into standing position with a tired groan. After Sherlock showed no signs of further movement, the doctor wrapped his arms around his best friend's waist and pulled him up. The younger man leaned against his chest and tilted his head back to rest it upon his blogger's shoulder.

"God!" he huffed in tired amusement. "Are you always this intense?"

A chuckle answered his query. "Only when it comes to you."

"John—" Sherlock started to say, but was cut off by the distinct ringing of his mobile. He forced his eyes open, completely unaware that they had even closed of their own volition.

He scanned the aftermath of their kitchen and spotted his phone teetering on the far edge of the scarred wooden table. The good doctor, always aware of what he needed, shuffled them forward and braced Sherlock's boney hips as the genius leaned forward to grab his device.

As soon as he saw the caller ID, the detective cursed mentally. They were in the middle of a murder investigation and here he was being shagged senseless by his flat mate. He tried to feel guilty about that, but Sherlock was just too sated in that moment to care properly.

"What is it, Lestrade?" the genius demanded, his baritone slightly husky from its vocal response to John's carnal efforts. He listened intently while the DI explained a new twist in their case before he agreed to meet him within the next half hour.

"There's been another murder," he announced after hanging up the phone.

John sighed and released Sherlock in favor of attempting to straighten himself out. He discarded the used condom and tucked himself back into his trousers as his best friend gingerly bend over to retrieve his discarded clothing. The doctor winced as he saw a pained expression flash across his companion's face when he realized the extent of the damage done to his equipment.

"Sorry 'bout that," John mumbled, making a sweeping motion with his hand to indicate the mess on the floor.

Surprisingly, Sherlock laughed and shook his head. "Don't be—that was fantastic. It was nothing of importance anyway. This—" he said, gesturing back and forth between them, "was the far more important experiment."

"We should probably talk about this," John stated awkwardly.

"For once, you're right—we probably should, but later."

His blogger silently nodded in agreement.

There was something about the look on John's face that gave him pause. Sherlock gazed down at him searchingly and it was all the older man could do to keep eye contact. It was not lost on the genius that something monumental had just shifted between them and that perhaps his former soldier needed a littler reassurance.

He raised a hand to John's face and lightly caressed his jaw with his knuckles. "Don't fret, John." Sherlock leaned down and offered the doctor a chaste, but sweet kiss.

"Okay," John agreed with a smile knowing that it would ultimately be alright, whatever this was between them now. "So…another murder?"

"Yes—Lestrade thinks it's related to this case but the method is vastly different. Wants me to have a look."

"Right…well I suppose that I should get this cleaned up in here while you go do that," the doctor replied, sparing another mournful glance at the disarray of the kitchen.

Shaking his head, Sherlock answered, "Nonsense! It can wait until later—I need you to accompany me. This should also peek your interest from a medical standpoint."

"Oh?"

"Yes, this is definitely 'a weird one'. This case just became all the more fascinating," the detective declared with a mischievous grin. "Let me just go get a fresh pair of pants and we will be on our way."

Sherlock ducked down yet again and pressed his lips to John's before he dashed out of the room.

The doctor laughed to himself and wondered about how insane his life had become. He couldn't find it in him to care—he loved every second of it.

* * *

**I hope their first time met your expectations :P I do love hot, angry sex. Mmm.**


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